


Tradition

by Letterblade



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bondage, Gags, Multi, Winner Takes All, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: Lance and Keith honor the ancient Altean tradition of naked magcuff wrestling. Either way, Allura wins.





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr porn fic request; prompt was Allura/Keith/Lance and competition.

“Lance,” Keith mutters in his ear. “How do we know she didn’t make up this ancient Altean tradition ten minutes ago?”

Lance snorts, elbows Keith’s side gently. “Does it really matter if she did? Or are you too worried about what’ll happen if you lose?”

“ _I’m_ not worried,” Keith says flatly. “I’m not going to be losing.”

“Get stuffed, mullet.”

“That’s gonna be you.”

Lance feels his ears heat and spits out a few more choice bits of trash talk, but okay, this might be weighted _slightly_ against him. At least Keith seems to understand proper trash talk these days? He feels his heart trip a little faster at the heat in Keith’s eyes.

“Paladins!” Allura calls brightly. “Step into the ring!” She’s just plopped down on her bed after setting everything up, wearing her full princess swishiness with her hair down, and Lance’s heart trips a little faster still. Whoever wins gets to do whatever they want with the loser, with Allura directing or stepping in at her whim. The last is a nod to her weird they-can’t-really-call-it-platonic-anymore-but-they-don’t-touch-quiznak _thing_ with Keith’s mostly-gay ass, and okay, on the off chance he wins, it’s going to be very fun to hit all of Keith’s weak spots while Allura pets his hair and calls him a good boy and makes him beg.

The ring, in this case, is a circle of pillows on her bedroom floor. Keith and Lance are both stark naked, lightly oiled—to Keith’s dismay—and wearing a full set of magcuffs. Wrists, ankles, neck, as well as bands around their chests and thighs that can serve as anchor points. Nothing’s engaged. Yet. Allura’s explained the rules. She’s placed two magnetized points on the floor, on the edges of the ring. Each of the five cuffs has to be secured, either to one of the body bands or to each other, and then the soon-to-be-loser must be anchored to one of the floor points to claim final victory. The connections will deactivate again within fifteen ticks of activation until the floor anchor’s engaged, and then they’re final. She’d offered a handicap, but Lance had refused it: either of them can activate the other’s connections if cuff and anchor point are touching for more than a tick.

Lance holds his wrists carefully apart, just as Keith does, and chews over his tactics, and steps into the ring with a bravura smile. Keith’s fast, tends to come in low. If he can trip him, he can probably catch at least one wrist on the chest harness, and from there he’s got fifteen ticks to get more of him locked down. He taps the rhythm of a tick with his toe, squares himself, loosens his knees. “Bring it, mullet.”

 

* * *

 

His mistake, Lance realizes as he struggles valiantly, was thinking Keith would let his arm touch his chest when he tripped. Goddamn space ninja. He’d _almost_ thought he might get somewhere before Keith rolled his tactics right back around on him and tripped him into an excruciatingly strict pin that locked his right arm high on the back of his harness, between his shoulderblades. It was all downhill from there. He’d gotten a fifteen-tick breakout, once, and fought until he could barely breathe, and now he’s on his back, panting, cursing and kicking with his one free leg. His wrist and ankle on one side are attached, splaying him open, and his other wrist is pinned behind him again.

“Right,” Keith says with a savage grin. “All five.”

He catches Lance’s one free leg and, inexorable no matter how he strains, bends him in half to lock his ankle to his collar. The stretch is harsh, aching, and he gulps air open-mouthed. “Fuck,” he croaks. “Fuck fuck fuck.” Two ticks and he might get his arm free, except it’s pinned under him, he’ll have a tick to get it away from the harness until the cuff reactivated. “I’m gonna get you, mullet. I’m gonna—”

“Sure you are.” Keith hooks a hand under his shoulder and _drags_. Lance gasps, squirming, but he’s a helpless, breathless bundle, and his gut is flip-flopping and his cock is twitching from how hot that is. Another tick and his wrist clicks free, and he tries to twist aside to free it, but Keith notices, damn him, and shoves that wrist against his thigh with his foot until it locks. Maybe five or six ticks and he’ll have his other wrist and leg—?

Keith drags him another few feet, sliding slick on his back across the smooth deck, and there’s a soft beep as his collar locks down to the floor.

Lance groans through his teeth, give a few desperate bucks, and Keith apparently decides he’s got too much wiggle room, because he pulls in his other leg, the one cuffed to his wrist, and sticks it to that thigh’s anchor point. One leg folded in half, the other locked to his neck, both wrists pinned to his thighs, collared to the floor. Now there’s pressure on his throat every time he struggles, and Lance makes a strangled noise, subsides, exhausted. He can’t move his head much, really can’t move anything, and his cock and ass are completely exposed, and the strain and humiliation of the position is—good, bone-deep good, because he is a kinky fucker.

Allura’s hem trails into his line of sight, somewhere in his peripheral vision, and he hears her soft applause. “A resounding victory, Keith.”

“Thanks.” Keith doesn’t stand, far as Lance can tell, but there’s soft clicks, Keith’s cuffs falling to the floor.

“May I assume you have some plans for your prize?”

Lance whines, can’t even wiggle much. “Oh god. Oh my god.”

“I can think of a thing or two,” Keith says, and without warning, casually, his finger slides across Lance’s exposed asshole, slick enough from the whole oiled-down thing that it dips inside a little. “But I shouldn’t have all the fun.”

“Oh, quite!” Allura laughs softly, and then there’s a rustle of fabric as she crouches beside him. “We’ll want to move him eventually, this isn’t the most convenient, but this position really is lovely.” Her hand running up his stretched thigh, then tousling his hair.

“Fuck,” Lance breathes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Do you plan to use his mouth soon?” Allura asks, conversational.

“No, this is a lot more convenient.” Another slide of finger over his ass. Keith goes fast, not one for slow teasing, and Lance feels like he’s slamming down a roller coaster hill, breathless as Keith plays with him. Tugs on his balls, gives his cock a single, careless stroke. “Mine,” Keith whispers. “All mine.”

“Yes,” Allura says fondly. “Our prize. And I hardly think you get a say in what happens to you.”

Lance barely sees the ball before it presses against his lips, big and a little soft, and he makes some garbled noise as Allura pushes it in, unrelenting, and slides her hands behind his head to seal it. For a moment, with his head tipped forward, he catches Keith’s eyes, widening a little, heated.

“Your loss,” Keith growls, and then his fingers are back at Lance’s hole, wet somehow—had Allura handed him something? Lance’s face burns as the ball gag cuts off his comeback, turns it into a raw _uh oo_ , and then Keith slides two fingers home, mercilessly fast, and knocks all the words out of Lance’s head along with a slurred howl.


End file.
